Slipstream

I dreamed that I was…I don’t know where.  Why do I nearly always dream houses, structures, buildings?  It felt like a small family in a kitchen or dining room — me, Mom, presences I recognized as family/friends but not individually, and Gwen.  We were all talking easily.  They were talking about peoples, maybe civilizations or cultures, kind of Eastern-feeling.  Gwen says something about what I hear as Quom — the Quom, maybe.  I ask her what/who is Quom?  She looks at me and laughs like she would at a precoscious child, and says “Katie, you’re awesome” and gives me a high-five. 

It’s been “a month” today.  I waver between being stunned and upset by this fact, and feeling like this fact matters least in all the world and barely even qualifies as factoid to begin with.  I prefer the second position, even though it’s nice to have a good cry.  Last last night at Cassia’s, I laid on her bed to read “I Still Live,” a biography zine her friend made about a 19th c. spiritualist — and just at that moment, she puts on Astral Weeks, which D.A. has played almost as incessantly as the White Album lately, but which I hadn’t really had a chance to engage with.  It hit me hard that she just put it on like that, I started laughing.  And then I laid down and cried for a long time.  Still, sometimes, it’s the tears that come up like a fountain, an overwhelming beauty.  And sometimes, now, finally, it’s the hard-grip kind, the kind where I’m powerless to do anything but breathe and wait for my entire being to unclench again.

This blog may turn into more of a dream/journal than it was intended to be, but so be it.  The recent and most intense dream of my life, which I will not post here, also took up the final space in my dream journal, and I don’t have a new one yet.  Also, I realized work must become my new home base for now.  This is the space I can decorate, this is my closest semblance of privacy, this is my computer time, this is my only MINE, now, in Portland or elsewhere.  I intend to make the most of it…and it’s gonna turn this blog into even more of a catch-all. 

The other kind of catch being that I have to actually do CLI work here.  Ha.  And listen to my co-cubicles’ dismbodied voices talk about whether they have it in them to kill someone.  What?

I’m always thinking up entries and words to do here, and then never remembering them when the time comes.  Do I have to surgically graft a notebook to myself to get me to record this shit at the time? 

So let’s do Quom, the word of my dream.  Google doesn’t spit up much — this is the most promising snippet: “Caste, Class, Quom, Biradari, tribe within a Tribe, sub-sect within a Sect.”  We’re talkin Indian or Persian here, most likely.  I like this very, very much.

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~ by Arrrow Marie on March 5, 2009.

2 Responses to “Slipstream”

  1. I love these posts. I love quom. I am always surprised at how limitless emotional pain is…It is huge. I’m coming up on 3 years since my stepdad passed away this weekend. It’s a murky time of year. It’s been 3 years and it’s been five minutes. Anyway, let’s get together soon.

  2. Isn’t it funny how time spirals on itself like that? The same time of year, or just a sudden same kind of feeling, a sudden surprising alignment. Like being up on a platform looking down on yourself. Or swimming through the world, dense and heavy, not sure but suspecting that up on the other side of the surface you’re there waiting for yourself in the air and the light and the sky. “3 years and five minutes” makes total sense to me. I didn’t realize it was this time of year for you.

    I would argue slightly with this part: “How limitless emotional pain is…” I would say: how limitless emotion. How vast the territory emotion reveals. Because there are the two types of crying. There is the fist-clench squeeze wringing the grief right through me, yes. There is also the fountain, the tears that just come without any squeeze at all, from a perfectly smooth brow — this is something else moving through me, and I can’t rightly call it pain. Pain is its husk, maybe…but inside, it’s pure beauty. It’s suddenly finding yourself crying because the pain is a lens, and now you see rightly, and you can’t help but cry at how fucking beautiful everything — everything — is.

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